


you're my sweet affliction

by ringerxo



Category: Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare, Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Fluff, Jewelry, M/M, Sensation Play, Senses, Sleepiness, Sleepy Cuddles, Sleepy Kisses, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Touching, Touchy-Feely, su and lu, thank su for this, them and the need to see alec and magnus sleepy and sweet and close and adorable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-12 04:38:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7920820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ringerxo/pseuds/ringerxo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alec loves textures.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're my sweet affliction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lecrit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lecrit/gifts).



> So [Suhasini](http://twitter.com/PatronusMalec) and [Lucile](http://twitter.com/_l_ecrit) were vomiting headcanons all over my dash this morning and I felt compelled to write something and it just turned into another jewelry-centered oneshot but this time it's also all about Alec and senses, too. And sleeping.
> 
> Also, I was so focused on writing this that I forgot to eat lunch.
> 
> Title is from Bebe Rexha's rendition of Cash Cash's [Take Me Home](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wvzfOyW0ZMo).

Alec loved textures.

 

From a very young age, he loved feeling the bumps and ridges of toys, and then of weapons. He loved trailing his fingers across the smooth-looking page of a book and feeling the miniscule dips and ridges of the fiber; he would walk across the carpet in his room barefoot, mesmerized by the feeling of threads and weave between his toes.

 

He found that different parts of his body appreciated textures differently. Smooth and delicate textures appreciated the back of his fingers, or his cheek; on his feet or with the pads of his fingers - less sensitive, rougher - their delicacy was lost. Rougher textures, strong and rugged, felt best under the soles of his feet, on the palm of his hand.

 

And then he grew up, and the love morphed into a skill. Feeling the twist of a corded bowstring became _essential_. The flex of the aluminum bow in his palm became _strategic_. Running the tail of an arrow between his fingers became _measured_.

 

His hands measured distance, wielded weapons; his feet tensed and flexed, holding position. His cheek knew the exhilarating snap of the bowstring, a hairsbreadth away.

 

And right now, his hand felt the miniscule nudges of resistance from within the lock as he inserted his key to Magnus’s apartment and turned it, letting himself in.

 

It was a month since the wedding. (The feel of Lydia’s smooth hands in his, his feet stepping down from the dais sending shocks up his body, his hands grabbing smooth lapels, and then falling, falling, falling, but holding onto those lapels for dear life.) Jace was still missing, Clary was still frantic, and Magnus was still there.

 

Alec had just come back from following a lead - a two-day search that led him nowhere. Maryse’s expression as she gave him the assignment was tightly controlled, and Alec didn’t need to ask to know that it wasn’t one of Magnus’s leads. He had set out with Isabelle, returning empty-handed and with wild thoughts. Isabelle was livid, spitting fire and rage; she was convinced that Maryse had sent them on a wild-goose chase just to get Alec away from the warlock, and spent the rest of the subway ride back muttering obscenities and vowing to rip into her mother the moment they set foot back in the Institute.

 

Alec was inclined to agree, but disinclined to pursue it. He was tired, so tired, and the thought of having to argue with his mother again turned him towards Brooklyn. He didn’t even tell Izzy, he just stepped off the train and stayed put while she walked on.

 

When she realized he wasn’t there, she turned to him, a question forming and then dissolving when she saw him raise his eyebrows towards the sign indicating the train to Brooklyn. A ghost of a smirk flitted across her face, but she was turning back and marching up the stairs before he could say anything.

 

Now, as Alec took off his quiver and leaned it and the bow against the wall in the coat closet, his mind brought up that last image of Izzy, corners of her mouth rising but her eyes still dark, still hungry, still furious.

 

She was hurting, he realized, taking off his jacket and hanging it up in the closet as well. Under the determination and rage, she was hurting.

 

Alec rose from untying his laces and toed his boots off as a dull ache bloomed in his chest. He sighed, rolled his shoulders, and padded his way to the bathroom.

 

After a quick shower, he slipped into a pair of sweats and an old, worn t-shirt and made his way to the bedroom.

 

(When he started escaping to Magnus’s loft, he would come in before Magnus, slip into a dreamless sleep, and wake up with Magnus next to him. The warlock was careful around him, so careful that he kept his distance even in bed.

 

Last week, Alec woke up draped over an impossibly still Magnus, who was trying not to move and wake him. The day after that, Alec showed up at Magnus’s door with a small overnight bag. He woke up the next morning in Magnus’s arms, and when he left, found a key in his jeans pocket.

 

Satin sheets. Magnus’s chest, gently rising and falling. Both were smooth. One exuded warmth. Both were unfamiliar.)

 

Magnus was there, asleep, still fully clothed. His shoes were off, his shirt was half-unbuttoned. The shimmery eyeshadow he had chosen that morning had settled into the creases around his eyes, throwing the shadows underneath them into stark contrast.

 

His lips were slightly parted, and his chest fell and rose. He looked exhausted.

 

Alec looked down at Magnus, the world quietly turning on its head. His fingers itched, and unbidden, they reached for Magnus’s hands, slipping his rings off one by one and placing them on the bedside table.

 

A ring with a yellow stone in it, wrapped in simple silver. A monogram ring, large and intricate, heavy. A solid silver band. A pewter-encased rough black diamond. A signet ring in a rough black metal.

 

“Alexander?” Magnus murmured. Alec shushed him, fingers expertly unfastening Magnus’s bracelet and sliding it off, letting the glittering metal strand pool in his palm.

 

(Alexander. The strident strike of the letter X seemed like a statement to Alec; coming from Magnus, it was a promise. The rest of his name was an investment, one that Magnus made every time he said his name, one that Alec exalted in and feared in equal measure.)

 

“You need to sleep, Magnus,” Alec murmured, sliding the silver band down Magnus’s sleeve and over his hand, placing it next to the rings. He made short work of Magnus’s other hand and arm, fingers ghosting over Magnus’s pulse, the contrast of metal and sleep-warmed skin playing havoc on his senses.

 

He unbuttoned Magnus’s shirt next, sliding the buttons through silk and pushing it off Magnus’s shoulders. The warlock sat up to allow Alec to take it off, and then propped himself up on his elbows, watching Alec with that unfathomable gaze again.

 

The necklaces were simple. Alec lifted them all off, the cascade of metal and beads and cloth sliding against his palms like an obstacle course. He set them gently down on the table, and then proceeded to slip the spiral ear cuff off Magnus’s ear and put it next to the rings.

 

Stripped of his jewelry and chest bare, Magnus looked like a stretch of long, tan adventure, lounging on the bed like that, eyes locking onto Alec’s. But his shoulders were stooped and his lids were low, and Alec smoothed his hand up Magnus’s arm, over his shoulder, and gently pushed down, easing Magnus back down onto the bed.

 

He slipped into bed next to him, throwing the duvet over both of them and laying his head down onto Magnus’s shoulder. He felt Magnus press a kiss into his hair, warmth and closeness all lending a hand in stripping away the fading tensions of the day.

 

He could hear Magnus sigh in contentment, and his fingers running through Alec’s hair were like a bucket tipping over Alec’s head, calming tingling descending down his body. Alec’s hand, on Magnus’s torso, was picked up by Magnus’s other hand, and their fingers were laced together.

 

Hands were an entirely different texture. The roughness of calluses competed with the smoothness of nails. The beat of Magnus’s pulse was right on the edge of Alec’s perception, like a promise.

 

Slipping into sleep, Alec heard Magnus murmur, “Good night, Alexander.”

 

His name in Magnus's tired voice was a promise of a different nature, its continuation rich with textures of its own.

 

Alec loved textures.

 

FIN.

**Author's Note:**

> *cups hands around mouth* IF SU WOULD KINDLY TELL ME HER USERNAME ON THIS SITE I'LL GIFT IT TO HER AS WELL


End file.
